


Chapter Five

by brunchywrites



Series: I Once Read... [5]
Category: DCU
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grieving, Jason Todd is Dead, batfam, bruce is a hollow shell of a man, this is the angst chapter y'all lol, well he just died but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 11:27:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18387503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brunchywrites/pseuds/brunchywrites
Summary: Why does the world expect Bruce Wayne to live when his son is dead?





	Chapter Five

**Author's Note:**

> me: oh my god this chapter is gonna be soOOo long  
> also me: keeps it short and sweet for better effect ;) 
> 
> if you enjoyed this series please hit me up with a follow on my tumblr for updates about the sequel, headcanons, and unfinished fics. If you feel like you're going to miss the era in this series in which Jason is Alive, don't fret. I'll be posting much smaller ficlets that will be apart of this same series but do not follow the overall storyline. think of them as flashbacks ;) 
> 
> my tumblr is brunchyarts

It was unfair that the world didn’t end when Jason died. It should have ended when his too small little boy took his last breath of air. It should’ve ended when Bruce curled around his son like he did when he had nightmares.   
  
Jason did nothing to deserve death. Jason was his little boy with pockets full of gumption and a heart full of hope for the world around him. He was small, and barely grown.   
  
_Why. Why? Why? Why? Why?_ ** _Why? Why_** **? Why!**

 

He smoothed his hand through Jason’s hair, the ash from the fire settling around them. His son couldn’t be dead, not Jason, his miracle boy. It wasn’t possible, those things.. They didn’t happen. He just had to get him home, that was all, get him home and patched up.   
  
Bruce stood up, still cradling Jason in his arms. He ran his fingers across Jason’s hand, flexing his cold fingers back and forth as if he could somehow push life back into him. Then he covered Jason with his cape and carried him back into the jet. It was a miracle he didn’t fall, his legs kept shaking along with the rest of him. Somewhere in the back of his head Bruce knew he was crying, but he didn’t address it. His thoughts drifted elsewhere and he focused on one thing, getting Jason home, making him safe.  
  
He set the jet on autopilot and took Jason to the medical bay, a place for the injured and now the dead but his son wasn’t dead. His son couldn’t be dead, his little boy was just sleeping, having a nightmare. He would wake up. Bruce smoothed some of the ash out of his hair and sat next to him. His thick lashes dusted the tops of his cheekbones and Bruce swore on his life that Jason would wake up because Jason was his little boy with a heart full of hope.

 

Bruce had stripped Jason out of his Robin costume by the time the Jet landed in the cave, and he carried his son out. Rigor Mortis was already settling in and parts of Jason’s body were stiff, but Bruce could coax feeling back into him. Jason was just having a nightmare, he would wake up.   
  
Alfred was already waiting, with a somber expression.   
  
“He’s having a nightmare,” Bruce had said, and he meant it. Jason just needed to wake up was all, needed time to process.   
  
Alfred shook his head, “I already called Leslie, she can start the autopsy Master Bruce,” Alfred came to his side and put a steady hand on his shoulder. Bruce felt like he wasn’t in his own body anymore, felt like he wasn’t carrying his son’s dead body.   
  
It hit him all at once, the weight of the corpse in his arm, the way he cradled Jason like he was a baby bird _He is my baby bird._

Bruce swallowed down the lump in his throat, and nodded. “Of course. But.. he’ll wake up.” He had too, there wasn’t another option.  
  
He walked over to the cot in the cave and laid Jason down, straightening his arms and legs out of that stiff cradle. He sat down in the stool with his hand atop Jason’s arm.   
  
Ash still blotted Jason’s pale face, dried blood still stained his skin where Bruce tried to wipe it away. His ribs were a mess of twists and snaps that made Bruce wish that it had been him who was hurt like that and not his son. There were dark bruises from where a crowbar had come down on Jason’s poor, little body.   
  
Bruce dropped his head down, resting his forehead against Jason’s and closing his eyes. A hum thrummed through his throat, a soft tune.  
  
“Without our traditions, our lives would be as shaky as... as a fiddler on the roof,” Bruce whispered, lips ghosting against Jason’s hair line.   
  
Traditions.  
  
Protocol. They were basically the same thing, right?   
  
And Jason.. Broke protocol, he broke tradition.  
  
Bruce felt the tears this time, they ran down his face hot and heavy. At some point he knew he was screaming, he tasted the blood on his lips and felt the way his throat was torn up.  
  
He removed himself from the cave when Leslie came down. He couldn’t watch his little boy get cut open, he couldn’t.  
  


It was a horrible night. He sat in his study for hours with the door locked.He just couldn’t get up, couldn’t move. It was akin to the night before the bat flew into the window and Bruce decided his purpose except now he wasn’t sure what that purpose was. What purpose existed when your son was..

 

The sunlight peered into the windows and alit the dark room with a fresh light, and Bruce got up.   
  
He walked out of the study, a heavy weight on his shoulders and a head full of t.v static. He felt like he wasn’t really there, he was left behind in the pile of smoke and ash he held his dead son in.  
  
Bruce walked down to Jason’s room and opened the door, closing it behind him and setting the lock. Jason’s bed was unmade, blankets tossed around to one side. Normally he would keep his room immaculate but the months leading up to Ethiopia must have been hard. They were hard, the echos of all the arguments resounded in Bruce’s mind like an unholy church’s choir.  
  
He slowly fixed the sheets, pressing them into neat hospital corners and tucking the green blanket under it. He fluffed up the pillows and set Jeremiah between them, the little stuffed rabbit was worn and tattered from years of use and it still felt soft between Bruce’s hands.   
  
His son was dead, his son had been murdered so violently. _His_ son who sat and read books till his eyes burned, and talked about theories until his throat got sore and he was rubbing exhaustion from his face.   
  
Bruce held the rabbit in his hands, cradling it’s head just like he cradled Jason’s before a soft knock came to the door and it opened. Alfred stood in the doorway with a small key in his hands.   
  
They were both silent, and Bruce felt the bed dip beneath him and felt a gentle hand on his thigh but he didn’t move, didn’t look up. He stared into the rabbit’s glassy eyes.   
  
After what felt like an eternity of silence he finally spoke, and his throat screamed at him when he did.   
  
“I should have been there quicker,” he whispered. “I should have gotten there before..”  
  
“Oh my poor boy, there was nothing you could have done-”  
  
“There was everything I could’ve done, Alfred,” he stood up, holding the rabbit close to his chest. “Everything..”


End file.
